Boat Ride to Galduria
GM Magnimar: The signboard bearing the image of a red carp hang above the entrance to the little flophouse where Bacarov arranged for you all to meet. The accomodations are fair, but a faint fishy smell hangs in the air throughout the remainder of the evening, and sleep does not come easily. Thoughts of the case are hard enough to drive from one's mind without the river-stench flooding your nostrils. Regardless, morning comes and you all wake, dress, and prepare yourselves for the beginning of your journey down the Yondabakari river to Galduria. Dalton leads the rest of the party down to the docks where he and Dramin poked around the night before, finding the Lucky Dragon with ease. Captain Bach, a graying, mutton-chopped halfling, watches from on board, raising a hand in greeting as he sees Dalton. Dramin Jodare is also aboard, and from the look of him, Bach has had him up and working on various projects since dawn. With the five intrepid investigators assembled and aboard the Lucky Dragon, the journey begins in earnest. Having given each of your hands a shake (and a rather awkward attempt at flirtation with Warshawksi, rebuffed immediately by an icy glare), Captain Bach pulls the squat little river barge away from harbor and sets her down the winding Yondabakari. "Six days 'till Galduria," Bach calls out over his shoulder from the helm, "Hope you brought a good book to read, or somethin' otherwise to keep ya occupied! I'll let y'all know if we pass anythin' interestin'- and jus' let me know if ye have any questions along the way! Don' worry about meals, I'm a right fair cook, as yer friend Mr. Jodare can no doubt attest! So y'all jus' settle in an' enjoy the ride, yeah?" Galduria: On the fifth night of the trek along the Yondabakari, the river finally empties out into the vast Ember Lake. As the sun dips down below the horizon and night lowers over Varisia, the lake shows you how it earned its name: thousands of tiny, brilliant lights shimmer just beneath the surface of the water, moving in odd, undulating pathways and patterns that mystify even the most jaded adventurer. "Ah, this is a good sign!" Bach laughs. "The Charig have come out to welcome us proper! I dunno whatever you folks are doin' in Galduria or wherever you head from there, but the little glowin' buggers are givin' you their blessin'! Well, either that, or they're warnin' ya to stay away, but I'm more a glass half-full sorta fella- you can take it fer what ya will. Anyhoo, helluva sight, ain't it?" It is late in the afternoon of the sixth day that you finally land in Galduria, as the docks are overcrowded and Bach has to take his sweet time in navigating the clogged piers. Galduria is not the most interesting or remarkable town by any stretch of the imagination but for the Twilight Academy, itself something of a Johnny-Come-Lately so far as arcane colleges go. It sticks up in the center of town like the proverbial sore thumb, like a miniature fortress in the middle of an otherwise ordinary logging town. "Been a pleasure ridin' the river with you folks," Bach says, helping you gather your luggage and march out onto the docks. "Best'a luck, all of ya. An' when you come back around to head back down to Magnimar, think of ol' Bach, will ya? Ain't nobody on the river you can trust more'n me." Dalton the Thirsty Dalton follows a strict schedule to maintain his discipline in the field. It would not do to return to the Temple in Manaket more sloppy than when he left. He rises and gets dressed a half-hour before dawn. When the sunlight crests the horizon each morning, he stands on one leg on the main deck facing it. He presses his palms together over his chest and rests the bottom of his right foot against his left knee. He holds this position until his muscles tremble in protest, and holds it further, usually well into what would normally be considered breakfast time. Then he moves through a series of stretches not unlike Yoga in their smooth movements and muscle elongation. After completing these stretches, he makes for breakfast, and demonstrates how he got his moniker "the Thirsty." Despite his mouth and gullet looking to be no larger than any man's, the monk is able to down an entire mug's worth of beverage in an instant, and does so frequently with satisfied grunts of pleasure afterward, accompanied often by tapping his own chest with his fist. Over the course of the six days, Dalton would try his best to engage in friendly conversation with his teammates or Captain Bach. His past is an open book; after inquiring about your history, Dalton is likely to offer to share his. If you listen to his stories and converse with him, you learn the following about Dalton: Focusing his Ki and attaining perfect serenity is his eternal goal, but he feels very far from accomplishing it; He has lost all contact with the previous group of adventurers he traveled with, some of whom were lost to violence or disease; He feels very out-of-place in these northern lands, far from the desert sands of Manaket in Rahadoum; He is eager to make friends, but confesses freely that he often pushes people away with his eagerness that he conceals poorly. Dramin Jodare Dramin spends a long few nights studying his leftover work, sometimes combing whatever little knowledge that might be more than just fairtytale from Bach. Before bed he takes a break by copying what scarce Scrolls he had on his person to his Spellbook. It seems he is putting off researching the names of the other passengers until he reaches Galduria. Other than when he is studying his spells, his door is open and he helps aboard the ship, though using an Unseen Servant or two to do most of the labour for him. He is fascinated by Dalton though and makes an effort to squeeze information out of the man about his monestary. One early morning upon being woken by Bach, he notices Daltons strange morning ritual. Though he attempts to copy his practices in private, he doesn't quite have the patience to master it and quickly resigns himself to noting about it to ask for later. Warshawski I had to put the chill on the captain's flirtation straight off. Spending the entire trip as the only woman aboard a ship would be as much fun as diving headfirst off the Irespan without magical assistance even without him trying to jam his codpiece up my skit. The first night, I made sure to gather our own crew together. We had information to exchange. Knowledge to share. I listened to what everyone else had to say and learned more about Mr. Kyle's adventuring days and his trip up the river. I shared what I learned as well, pulling out my notes. "Ravenmoor's run by a guy named Kriegler." I told the others. "His title is mayor but it might as well be lord. His family has a history of calling the shots in town. The first one, Iola Kriegler saved the town from some sort of crop killing blight. The town's known for being friendly but a little odd. All Desna worshippers and you know how flighty they can be. They like to keep monsters as pets. Stirges are especially popular." I continued. "There's no Inn so we'll have to scramble for a place to sleep. Once a month they have a Founder's Festival. You can guess which night they hold it on. It isn't when the moon is new. They also trade with the Hawk tribe of the Shoanti." I folded my notes and put them away. "The tax mixup seems to be just that. A mixup. We haven't sent anyone to collect the taxes in forever. Still, there's something wrong. I can smell it. This town isn't a shining jewel of sanity. There's a shadow hiding there and we're about to stumble into it." I spent the next few days following my routine. Each morning I rose and I exercised. Crunches. Push-ups. Aerobics. You know who loses a chase? The idiot who is panting halfway through it. I'll be damned if that's me. In the evening, as the sun set, I performed my devotions to Ashava, the True Spark and patron of lonely spirits. In bare feet, clad in the traditional dancing garb of the Varisian maidens I used my blade scarf to weave patterns in time to the bells that encircled my wrists and ankles. I lept and spun and whirled my way across the deck until the sun sank below the waters and the spirits that could be found even here, in the middle of a river, lept and spun and whirled with me. I knew I was putting on a show for the others. I didn't care. I'm not ashamed of my faith or my dancing ability. Sebastian Bacarov Bacarov relaxes on the boat ride, content to let the others get their bodies right while he partook in a couple of favorite activities; reading and gaming. As a matter of course, he chats up the good Captain Bach, speaking in Halfling because he loves the language so much. What other tongue can a person rain down insults without even uttering a curse word and still end up laughing at the end of the conversation? If any one is interested he'll break out a miniature Horses & Rooks (chess) set and extends an invitation to the others. Bacarov can spend time gaming and also learning about his would be allies. During one of the evenings he'll entreat Warshawski for a quick a conversation. "Nice work with the resources. Knowing the king whose castle we're entering is a bonus. Names are nothing eat you gathered in sure will come to good use." Bacarov takes some time to light the bowl of his pipe and puff it to life. He sighs with satisfaction and continues. "Been meaning to thank you for the work you did on the Jimina case last month. Appreciate you sharing your gift to bring that four-fingered bastard to account." He pulls a small item from his belt satchel where he keeps his tobacco. It's a wooden doll, no more than 2 inches tall, crafted by a toy maker practiced in the art. The figure is carved in the likeness of a knight. "The Jimina kid's mom gave it to me, said it was little Fepwit's favorite toy." A closer look reveals the start and tear off a child's hands. "Anyway, not the ending we wanted, but it was closure." He slips the item back into his satchel. "Your gift, it... it opened my eyes a bit to the job. Time was my focus was on justice for the life long gone... now I have a better picture. Could be all those times I've been talkin' to myself, I may have been talking with the victims. Nothing like what you've got... it's just a consideration I like knowing now." "Thanks for that." he says finally. Warshawski I was still dressed in my dancing togs and my skin was lightly beaded with sweat. I could smell the salt clinging to me. For a moment, I contemplated taking a quick dip in the river to wash it all off but only for a moment. Who knew what was swimming in those waters at night. As I contemplated the stars reflecting off the surface of the river, Bacarov wandered by. I tensed, then forced myself to relax. Marsh might make a crack. I didn't think Bacarov would. And I was right. I listened to what he had to say. Looked at the doll he showed me. "Marsh was right about one thing." I said after a silent pause. This wasn't a night for hurried conversation. It didn't feel right to do anything but take my time. "Murder is a different beat. I don't know if I could deal with it, day after day. We both go after scum but I only have to listen to the dead afterwards. You have to see their bodies, split open and broken. Smell the rot. Hear the flies buzzing. If I had to do that everyday... I don't know." Listen to me, being honest. "The victims need to know they count." I continued, following the thread of my thoughts wherever they'd lead. "Their souls need to know they mean something to someone. That they're more than just an entry on the ledger of the city guard's caselogs. You're better than a lot of the beaknoses out there in that regard, Bacarov. Keep giving a damn." Dramin Jodare I recall that there was a morning where I decided to get ''up early. Perhaps it was the water or the fact that Bach pestered me, but regardless I got to see the sun. Unfortunate. I think that was the day I decided that perhaps it was time to talk to my coworkers, for worse or better. Dramin was getting bored again, the initial excitement of the trip was waning. He was out of scroll materials and couldn't bear to study anymore, so he needed something else to amuse himself. It was then he saw the investigator smoking from his pipe at a table and decided that it was better than nothing. "Hail there Bacarov." He took a seat near the man and for a minute just quietly sat there. After a few slightly awkward moments Dramin came up with something to say. "Not a bad ride thus far. I overheard you and Bach... So whereabouts did you learn to talk halfling?" It was the best he could do without relying on his gift. No matter. It's just a diversion anyway. He notices a small portable board near the older man, trying to puzzle out what it is, secretly hoping its an intellectual exercise and not some art set. He doesn't try to hide his intrigue. Sebastian Bacarov To Dramin: He watches Dramin make his approach, a combination of curiosity and awkward social graces towards strangers. Bacarov considered that outside of Marsh and Warshawski, he knew little of the others. Dalton was an open book, his martial discipline unable to conceal his earnestness. But Dramin was something of a mystery. To the Inspector, he was that all too rare combination of magic and physicality. The Watch sought out such sidled to serve, but it was the very rare case that proceed to be effective. Dramin sits across from him initiating small talk from his point of view. But to Bacarov, he'd touched on one of his favorite topics. "It was a long case, a double homicide I picked up two years ago down in the Mush (Ordelia District)." He begins song up the pieces on the game board, the varying shapes ending up in two opposing rows like armies across a battlefield. "Two Halflings who's just been out for a stroll." His tone is morose, a touch of what others in his line of work call the "everyday's". "At the time, my Halfling was passable, enough to order a drink and ask questions. But the two lads who'd been killed, they'd been living with their grandfather, nice guy named Linkah." He finishes the game s etup and turns it so one of the factions lay in front of Dramin. "Over the course of my investigation, we grew close. I developed a taste for his cooking and he began teaching me the top speak his heart tongue." Bacarov shakes his head with a smile. "Odd thing, in Halfling, bad news doesn't sound so.... bad." The Inspector takes a few moments to explain the game of Horses & Rooks (chess) and gestures to the board for Dramin to consider his first move. "And you? You seem to be a man of many talents. What among them is your calling?" To Warshawsk: Bacarov runs a finger along his nose and smiles. "Beaknose, huh? I'll have to remember that one." He changes the subject for a bit to one of lesson all curiosity. "I've been meaning to ask since I noticed you carrying the scarf... Where did you learn to use it?" The face of of a dead half-orc crosses his mind, a bladed scarf encircling what remained of his neck. One of the Rook's girls had been defending herself that night. He shakes off the memory and continues. "Not any easy skill, I'm impressed." Dramin Jodare To Sebastian: Dramin eyed the board and the pieces. He looked at the signs to tell of which rules the inspector played with, as the rules always seem to change based on the region. He never actually played the game though he was a person who at one point studied it for its tactical merits. He talks about these murders with such a nostalgia. How peculiar, many would be clinical and detatched but he seems to be fortified from it. Dramin smiled at the nicety of going first; though he would have liked to ensure he was playing properly by seeing the older man's opening move. He couldn't say no now and drop the facade so he began to play a few things in his head and settled on one play which didn't end in strange looks from the inspector. Thankfully the man explained it, funny he never considered that outcome. "Me? I am quite flattered you notice really. Many don't have the stomach to admit that to me, perhaps its a little intimidating to some." He says it with an arrogance but its not malicious or perhaps even intentional. "I want to learn everything. I want to see everything. I now persue my own studies, whatever I want to know I learn, this job is a tool to be used. That's the true reason I am here, not for the woman or money but for what I can glean along the way. I don't have any need for any shame with hiding it." He pushes a piece into position and lays back, taking up space. "And you Mr. Inspector, why this job out in nowhere? Someone of your talent could be anywhere." He asks earnestly. Sebasitan Bacarov To Dramin: "Me?" Bacarov smiles and leans forward to make his opening move. "I go where the work takes me. My current case load isn't so heavy that I can't spare my attentions when assigned. Besides, a new location lends new perspective." He takes a moment to look upon the passing river. "Knowledge for knowledge's sake is a noble endeavor. But behind that knowledge are the lives that took to build it. While this outing may be an opportunity, realize that there is a life we seek to find."'Bacarov keeps his tone friendly, but wanting the younger man to think he's trying to admonish him. '"This Elias Kyle doesn't appear to be the sharpest knife in the set, but someone cares for him enough to hire us to find him." Warshawski To Sebastian: I fingered the scarf wrapped around my waist. Automatically, my fingers avoided those spots where razors lay hidden. Like most scarf dancers, I had my share of thin, white scars. Accidents that marked my training in the unique weapon. "My parents figured out my... gift early on. They were wise enough to realize they couldn't teach me on their own." I shrugged my shoulders and unwrapped the scarf from my waist. "They didn't much like the idea of taking me to a temple of Pharasma so they sought the council of a follower of Ashava instead." With a quick snap of my wrist, I unfurled the scarf and snapped it into the air. "Sister Kaye trained me in how to control my abilities and in how to wield the sacred weapon of Ashava." Vincent Marsh On the boat ride Marsh spends quite a bit of time enjoying reflecting over the water. He listens when Sebastian engages the Captain, but doesn't involve himself in the conversation or betray that he can understand the exchange. I the evening before landing he gets out his weapons and checks his tack. All his blades are finely made and maintained, but show honest use. The warriors heavy flail though is something all together different. It show signs of heavy battle damage and repairs. It's spike cold iron head is that or a sneering demon with its face pierced with spikes. Flakes of enamel cling to some of the crevasses of its carvings. After checking it, Marsh places it back in its carrier. "You dancing again tonight Warshawski? I forgot to bring extra coppers. Heh heh." "Yeah I'll hit those places up with you a Sebastain. You gotta Chuck around here? slang for informant" Warshawski Honestly, what was surprising was Marsh hadn't made a stupid, idiot comment about my dancing before now. I ignored him and turned my face up to the moon, bathing in the presence of spirits and of my Lady as she filled me with her power. Marsh could jump in the river for all I cared. Maybe it would swallow him whole. Sebastian Bacarov To Warshawski: Bacarov watches as she handles the bladed scarf with an expert's care. The dichotomy of silk and razor isn't lost upon the detective. A woman who who holds congress with the dead and chases tax cheats, one could argue that one does not compliment the other. But he also knows he couldn't do his job if he had her abilities. He brings out his trusty pouch and withdraws a pinch of tobacco. From within his coat he takes out his pipe with its bowl carved with various leaves and bark favored by Halfling growers. "I've no idea what I would do with a gift such as yours. Some of the dead I've seen," He pauses to light the pipe, earthy scents of cherry wood and spices rising on glowing embers. "... there's some who died for all the right reasons. Whatever evil they left in their wakes, well it caught up with them one way or another." Bacarov stares into the passing waters. Heironeous S'etih Febrizio... eyes gone...tongue gone... banners out front of the Triodea never send clearer announcements. Fella like Febrizio wasn't a saint, no memorials in Pharasma's courts when we found his corpse. But even he didn't deserve to go like that. He breathes in the pipe weed and asks the question. "Do the spirits of evil men ever cross your path?" Dramin Jodare To Warshawski: One night Dramin was studying and decided that perhaps it was time to observe some overnight occurrences. He had heard about a story around these parts regarding a dark moon and its effect on the dawn but he was quite skeptical until he saw it with his own eyes. He cracked his neck, grabbed his journal and snuffed the candle before leaving his quarters; mumbling for a servant to clean his room while he was gone. He wonders how he ever lived without his magic, but remembered why his parents never taught him until later in his days. "You have to be a paragon of everything to truly understand the nature of the world young one. Just having magic isn't enough, it is a tool. One does not make beautiful paintings with magical brushes, one needs to feel and understand the brush to make the tools work." He lived by that daily. He eventually came outside and saw nothing but wonderful starlight, with a figure dancing in it. His eyes adjusted ever so slowly until he made it out to be Warshawski. I wasn't aware she was a follower of Ashava. He observed for a bit and waited for her dance to finish before he approached, knowing full well from experience that getting between someone and their patron was never good news. He slowly made his way over to the woman, "Hail there Warshawski. I didn't know you danced as such." Unlike the other day with Bacarov, he didn't feel as confused. Perhaps it was the night helping to obscure his face or perhaps it was the fact that Warshawski also was able to see things people doubted; regardless he felt a little more at ease. "I truly apologize for stumbling across your obedience, if you'd like some quiet let me know, as I have other things to do anyway." Despite his callous nature, when it came to the deities Dramin did have some tact. His own worship of Nethys, despite being told was foolish and unstable by many others, drove him and helped him drive others. He felt that if they were able to spur knowledge and teaching thirst in Dramin that they were worth the added effort. Warshawski To Sebastian: The smoke from Bacarov's pipe tickled my nose. I resisted the urge to scratch at it. For a moment, I remembered my childhood. How my father liked to enjoy a pipeful when he came home from work. "Evil men and women." I replied to Bacarov's question. "The truth is, most truly evil souls go onto their reward quickly. They have this habit of feeling satisfied with their lives. No real regrets. And so, they don't linger. Some stay, though. Some learn their lessons. They grow as people, as odd as that sounds, because of the death experience. Others, though? They're just as evil in death as in life. Then I have to deal with them. Even spirits can be destroyed, Bacarov. Even death can die." I rested my backside against the railing, turning away from the view of the river. "So, how long have you and Marsh been a couple?" To Dramin: There's a rhythm to dancing on a boat. You need to learn to compensate for the way the deck rocks with the river's motion. There's a music to it. It took most of that night for me to work out how to follow the natural beat buried in the swaying of the boat. "Dramin." I knew Bacarov and, to a lesser extent, Marsh. Dramin and the guy with the painted face were unknowns. Time to learn, maybe. "I'm done with my obedience." I explained. I settled on a nearby stool, one that had been lashed to the deck. "You're a man of magic, right? That'll be good if things turn south here. Marsh is good in a fight and I assume Dalton is, too. Bacarov's got a good eye. The spirits help me with some magic but when it comes to fireballs or scrolls I'm as lost as any mundane." Sebastian Bacarov His mind goes back a year, making it out of Gimison's Ale House with a dagger wound bleeding freely from his shoulder. Bacarov had stumbled into the alley to find Marsh laying into a man, blow after blow raining down as he yelled incoherently. They'd been there seeking answers on a case personal to Marsh... "A year ago. One of my tougher assignments. Folks getting mutila... *cough* killed down in Dockaway. Started with merchants, then spiraled outward into unrelated waters. About the time I'd get a handle on it, the killer would change his tactics, change his targets." Bacarov puffs with mild irritation on the pipe. "Seemed they were always one step ahead if not a whole city block." He calms his nerves, letting the tobacco wash through his system instead of anger over the past. "One of the few leads I had brought me to Vinnie. Took me a while to wade through his drek, but he helped me bring in the murderer." Bacarov rolls his shoulder and draws back his coat and pulls down his tunic. Even in the soft glow of the boat torches and the moonlight, the matching scars, front to back, clearly denote the entry and exit of a dagger blade. He pulls his tunic and coat closed once more. "Vinnie knocked me aside before the bastard put the blade in my heart. Saved my life." "But it's not the only reason I call him friend." Sebastian rests his hands on the rail and studies Warshawski for a moment, gauging the woman on a deeper level. Trust is a hard thing for the detective to dole out. Finally he says, "I can't ask you to cut him slack, Abadar knows Vinnie could use a good kick in the arse daily. But I'll say this, the man's been thru 9 levels of hell. The kinds of things that drive some to lose their minds or worse. Only thing I can think of that keeps the man breathing is that Abadar's not done balancing his scales." "Give him time, Warshawski," Bacarov continues, tone shifting to lighthearted. "...when he's in your corner, you couldn't ask for a more devoted, loud mouthed son of a cuss for a friend." Warshawski To Sebastian: The scar was a beauty. I hadn't seen it before. I resisted the urge to reach out and trace it with my fingers. I usually had that urge when people showed me their scars. Something about hard-earned experience draws it out in me. "I remember those murders. They were the talk of the city." I drew off my Sleeves of Many Garments and my dancing outfit reverted by magic to my normal traveling clothing. Not as pretty but much sturdier. "The city seized the killer's assets. My office had to catalogue everything, auction it off and distribute the coin properly." The topic turned back to Marsh and I felt myself frowning. I didn't like it so soon after my obedience. I should be riding the high of the dance and of communion with Ashava. Not anchored back to the deck by thoughts of anger. "... I'll try. The next time he makes a crack about my devotions being the same as a girl dancing for coppers on the street corner, though, he feeds the river monster with his spleen. Savvy?" Dramin Jodare To Warshawski: "I have to confess, I am not one for theatrics when it comes to my magic. Fireballs and beams of light are all fair when you get into a skirmish, but the best way I find is to avoid one altogether." He looked around for a stool in the dark as he spoke, making him look more pensive than he intended. He spoke out with little pretense "So Warshawski, how exactly does your gift work? Do you see them all the time? How do you maintain yourself? I've seen the skeptical stares from others, but I have seen things people call mad as well." His words are not unkind but they have a tone of clinical examination and sincere interest. Warshawski To Dramin: I could hear the question coming from a mile away. I should have expected it. Every wizard I've ever met eventually ended up asking me the same thing. I opened my mouth to give one of my stock answers, then paused and reconsidered. If I was going to be working with this guy, I needed to build a connection with him. I wouldn't do that by being snarky. I had enough trouble with Marsh in the group. "It doesn't work." I explained. "Not in any way you might be familiar. It isn't a gift from the gods or a magic spell. It just is part of me, the same way breathing or sweating is. Maybe I co-exist in their world at the same time I'm in our's. I don't know. It just comes to me naturally." Dramin Jodare Dramin took her words in and really tried to settle down into them. Everything he ever had was through training or practicing, things did come naturally but to compare it to something mundane like breathing or sweating was a little much. If he struck a nerve, he saw it and decided that the best way to get to the bottom of this mystery was to work with her. "If thats the case, let me be the first to say I am not a regular wizard. I am not a man who has been locked up in some tower reading books my whole life." He puts his arms up signaling the air around him. "I do wish to understand your enigmatic abilities, so I will apologize for this and any future discomfort I may cause by my prying. However, I will not apologize for my own pursuit of knowledge; my own very nature." He gives a small bow and seems like he is ready to leave but stares at the stars for a few more moments. Warshawski I had to laugh. "In an investigator. I've never met a regular wizard in my life. Not one who lived in a tower all the time. Most of them are working stiffs, making ends meet by peddling spells. Just like anyone else. Just with magic. I glanced up at the moon one last time, then spoke to Dramin again. "You do what you need to do. Just be ready for my to break your nose if I decide you're being an ass about it. With that, I headed for the little room that was reserved all for me. It was small but having a set of t$*+ meant I had it all to myself. Sometimes, I like life.